


Slick

by Blacktablet (Ishamaeli)



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: Graphic Porn, M/M, NSFW, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-21
Updated: 2012-01-21
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ishamaeli/pseuds/Blacktablet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>The cotton sheets are rough under his back when he twists on them and presses his face into the pillow, legs spread wide open and hips canting off the bed in a futile effort to encourage the fingertip at his entrance to sink in further.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Slick

**Author's Note:**

> I drank two cups of spoon melting coffee 'round 2AM because I wanted to write something, anything, but couldn't, so after 4AM I wrote some filthy, unapologetical PWP to the soundtrack of _POTC: The Curse of the Black Pearl_ and edited it later while watching said film(s). Thanks to A and jenexet for letting me know it was quite hot enough thankyouverymuch, now where's the bunk? Self-betaed with help from MS Word. Any and all ConCrit is appreciated ~~since I've kind of not written porn this graphic before~~.
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** Messieurs Holmes and Watson are Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s brilliant inventions but public domain nowadays.

The cotton sheets are rough under his back when he twists on them and presses his face into the pillow, legs spread wide open and hips canting off the bed in a futile effort to encourage the fingertip at his entrance to sink in further. The touch is deliberately torturous, barely circling his hole before sliding up to his heavy scrotum and then back down again, slipping teasingly over slick skin.

He moans at the feeling that makes his toes curl, the sound vibrating deep in his throat. Perspiration shines on skin that has been robbed of its healthy tan by the long winter, makes it glow in the yellow candlelight. He shifts his hips off the bed again, silently begging to be breached as he’s not yet far enough gone to make such a plea aloud. The only response he gets is the wide pad of a thumb rubbing at his entrance not quite forcefully enough.

"Have you... no mercy at all?" he gasps the question, the gradual gathering of warmth in his loins very pleasant but simply not enough anymore, not after half an hour. He needs to be filled, to be stretched to his limit until it _almost_ burns, and he needs it right now. He has already leaked a fair amount of pre-cum on his stomach and the sloppy sliding of the sensitive head of his cock against smooth skin makes him keen with frustration.

"No," is the mildly amused answer. The thumb continues to circle over his anus, pressing against it more firmly and nearly pushing in before pulling back. "I'm afraid you were quite asking for it, old boy." A strong hand settles on his thigh and urges him to fold up further, enforcing the sensation of being helpless, _open_ , under the other's hungry gaze. He has not felt quite so exposed in some time and whimpers when the hand remains on his thigh, steadily holding him in place.

He swallows thickly. The movement of the thumb hasn't stopped for a second. "I'd hardly call criticising your technique at giving oral pleasure asking for—ah!" He loses that train of thought completely when just the tip of the thumb slips inside of him, the action ostensibly unintentional, almost an afterthought. His hole is stretched more, the thumb caressing the edge of the muscle in smooth movements. He bites his lip to stop another moan from escaping because goddammit, he will not be reduced to a quivering mess by this. The sharp pain helps him focus a little; he directs a glare at the figure above him, half-hidden in shadow, and adjusts his grip on the bedclothes. "You're enjoying yourself too much."

He gets an undeniably wicked grin in reply and suddenly there is a thick forefinger pushing relentlessly into him all the way up to the first knuckle, aided by a small amount of lubricant. He groans, unable to stop the bucking of his hips when he finally gets what he wants. It feels so good; it would feel even _better_ if the thrice-damned bastard doing it to him would hurry up and move to bigger things but of course, he doesn’t. The finger moves in and out in sure, calculated movements, barely brushing against his prostate on the way. Each fleeting touch sends a jolt of pleasure through him and his breath hitches without his consent, his cock throbbing against his stomach in time with his pulse. The sheets under him are getting soaked with sweat.

"Your criticism was hardly deserved." There is a hint of hurt in the voice, and the finger twists sharply inside him, rubbing directly against the spot that makes him see stars.

"Good God, man!" It's hard to focus. He listens to the obscene, slick sound that accompanies the finger being drawn out of him before it returns with another one, stretching him further. He is now nearly folded in two and is holding his own feet completely off the bed. Without any proper leverage he can only rock in the tiniest of movements against the digits slipping lazily in and out of him, the muscles of his thighs tense under his hands.

If he were the sort of man to feel humiliated at being made to hold himself on display in such a way, he undoubtedly would, but humiliation is only another one of those little feelings that he has deemed that a man can feel but has no real merit whatsoever. Shame and regret he does know, though, and deep down he knows that he has deserved this torture, that the words he spoke earlier were more out of frustration at the case whose conclusion eluded him than of any real discontent at the hands of his partner. But—dear Christ in heaven, if this is the result…

Then again; he misbehaves often enough without deliberately trying to, so maybe he’ll have to let that particular thought go.

There is the barest hint of a moustache against the soft skin on the side of his knee before a sharp bite is delivered there. The shock of it is mixed with the pleasure of the fingers scissoring, rubbing against the smooth walls of his channel, and he surrenders another moan. "Alright, alright, I admit it! It was hardly—ahh—hardly fair of me—oh!" The fingers are speeding up and the mouth, all soft lips and a hot tongue that draws what feels like crude runes on his sweaty skin, is descending promisingly along his inner thigh to his crotch.

At the first touch of a mouth to the underside of his prick, a kiss brushed in that intimate place, his lips part and he draws a deep breath. "I could—make it up to you?" The mouth moves upwards on his straining member, the firm tongue finally swirling around the tip, dipping into the slit for a moment to lap up the pre-come there. Then the whole head of his cock is engulfed in the wet cavern of his lover's mouth and he feels it all the way down to the pit of his stomach when his member is sucked deeper. That combined with the sensation of his entrance loose around the two fingers still fucking him makes his sack tighten with arousal and a desperate moan issue from him.

"Please," he doesn't even realise he's saying it at first, that it’s his mouth forming the words, not when the double sensations of filling and being filled assault his already befuddled mind that is pleasantly quiet for the moment. "Please, oh God, please _hurry_ , Watson," he moans, throwing his head back against the pillow and desperately trying to push against the fingers working him as the words finally escape. Strands of sweaty, dark hair stick to his forehead. "I need _more_."

The mouth leaves his prick but a hand takes its place immediately, wrapping firmly around him and pulling roughly a few times until he thinks he'll spend himself before soon; too soon. "Are you feeling sufficiently chastised?" The expression on Watson's face is impish but there is another question that is only visible in his cornflower blue eyes, the real question that he is not asking aloud.

Holmes nods, reaching to cup Watson's face with one trembling hand. The position is a bit awkward but he needs to touch him, to slide his thumb over the flushed lips and the slight stubble of his jaw. He intends to say something mildly humorous, in all likelihood a reference to proper chastisement and the riding crop sitting innocently on Watson's desk, but what comes out instead is, "I'm sorry."

Watson smiles at that, nuzzling his palm briefly before settling over him. "Alright," he murmurs and withdraws his fingers quickly, leaving in their place a gaping emptiness. He wipes his hand on the sheet and places it firmly on Holmes's other thigh, leaning back a little and admiring his handiwork. "You do look quite debauched," he remarks with half a grin, taking in Holmes's flushed face and the way he is positioned; legs bent, pink hole stretched wide open.

Too impatient to be offended – aware of the fact that the words ring depressingly true – Holmes gives a warning growl. "Watson..." But he doesn’t have the chance to say anything more before the other man positions his cock at Holmes's entrance and pushes all the way in, one smooth slide that stops only when he can go no further. Holmes sucks in a breath, feels his internal muscles barely adjust to the whole length of his lover inside him before Watson sets an unforgiving rhythm.

He practically pounds into Holmes, the slap of flesh against flesh mingling with Holmes's cries of pleasure and Watson's panting. Nearly every other thrust hits his prostate and he's been on the edge for so long, he is coming in hard spurts over his stomach and chest before he has the chance to comprehend the feeling that shoots through him. The pleasure of the orgasm wipes out everything else for several seconds and when Holmes comes back to his senses, Watson has slowed down and is watching him intently.

"Talk to me," he says simply, holding Holmes by the hips while he thrusts into him almost lazily and coaxes him to let his legs back down on the mattress.

"Slick," Holmes blurts out, voice trembling when Watson's cock grazes his over-sensitive prostate. "I still haven't got used to how big you are. Sliding in a-and out... Lord, Watson, merely thinking that you're in me, filling me, and you'll soon be spending yourself in me, it—it makes me want for you to do it again. And, ahh, afterwards I'll be lying here and feeling your come inside me..." He feels his own cock give a half-hearted twitch at the thought and swallows hard, licking his lips. "And you'll push a finger, two fingers into me, with no effort at all because I'm still stretched out from before..."

Watson's rhythm falters and he hisses with his eyes screwed closed. His hips snap forward once, twice before Holmes feels the warm flood of his seed spread in him. Watson collapses forward, catching himself on his elbows as he pants a warm patch onto Holmes's neck. They lie together, both attempting to steady their breathing and gather their wits enough to speak again. Watson's cock softens gradually and then slips out when he moves into a better position. Holmes grimaces a little at the sensation; it's not uncomfortable, not precisely, but it's not his favourite part either. That comes lat— _oh_. Apparently earlier than expected.

"Bastard," Holmes mutters fondly with his eyes closed and shifts his hips, the further stimulation making relaxed muscles all over his body spasm helplessly.

Watson has two fingers in him as promised. He is stroking Holmes’s loosened entrance and watching the mix of lubricant and semen that dribbles out with something akin to mild fascination before turning his gaze further up. "I may be a bastard, but _you_ are a shameless wanton."

Holmes merely groans and twitches some more.


End file.
